


The Flight, the Fall, and the Forsaking of a Crow

by gintokiu



Category: Gintama
Genre: (but not like that), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Confessions, Established Relationship, M/M, Soft sex, Tenshounin Naraku, cult shit, soft everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23220697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gintokiu/pseuds/gintokiu
Summary: A timeline of events beginning from the moment that Gintoki is picked up as a child.
Relationships: Hijikata Toshirou/Sakata Gintoki
Comments: 14
Kudos: 137





	1. Chance Encounters Aren't Always for the Best.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, writer's block been kind of kicking my butt these past two months. Luckily, there's been a worldwide pandemic to force me into self-isolation so I've had no choice but to get my shit together. (pls do not think that I believe this pandemic is a good thing that was merely a joke I promise) Anyways, I've got some stuff I think is pretty nifty in the works for pre-existing stories but I'm also me and I write what I want to in that moment, so here's this little idea before I post those sometime soon. 
> 
> a couple of notes I made while writing:  
> \- you know it’s bad when Gintoki has order in his life  
> \- I'm sorry I'm too extra for regular ol’ hansel and gretel  
> \- can you tell I like writing a troubled Gintoki  
> \- can you also tell I like a Gintoki that enjoys a fight  
> \- also I might have written some canon timeline things wrong (like, truthfully, I have no idea when Nobume leaves the TN) but hey, my hands typed it so it is what it is  
> \- (I tried to be as canonically accurate as possible pls understand I did do research on both the real people and the anime itself I promise)  
> \- [ Gintoki's age ]  
> As always, enjoy. <3

[ ten ]

The land around is silent, a putrid smell lost to his nose rising up into the darkening clouds, rain threatening its fall from above any moment now. The clouds are swirling and distantly, lightning lights up the sky, a clap of thunder following shortly after. There’s a patch of heavy rain in the distance, the flat plain of earth spread around him making it an easy catch. He’s got very little time to get back to the deserted shrine, legs wobbly from stepping over the dead littered on the ground and most unfortunately, not much food to show for it.

It’s quiet, save for the crows above and the thunder, his feet are light and the huff of his warm breath almost nonexistent. Tired, hungry, and alone― emotions and feelings that had grown as familiar as the back of his hand. Last night had been a reprieve from such aloneness, he’d sat up in the trees by the shrine as the army set up their camp at his shrine, watching. They’d been a sight for sore eyes, a remarkably preppy and well-spirited group, the same group who he was now having to cross over to get back to his temporary dwellings. 

He thought it was all quite funny. How, just the night before, these men could be drunk off their minds from cheap sake donated by a village they passed through, and come the next night their bodies beginning to decay under the moist air, slowly picked clean by the birds. How did those generals sing their men such lullabies for them to so willingly give up their lives in this fashion? Was it the fact that their enemy looked differently than them, talked differently? Was it the easily obtained glory death in battle brought?

He didn’t know. He’d sat and thought about that many times over, the answer never arising. One thing he did know for sure however is that it would never be him, he had promised himself that long ago. After following the shadow of armies both human and not, he’d come to the conclusion that he would never let his soul be bought by one man’s voice or the returning cry of many suicidal fanatics. 

He wouldn’t die a death for someone else.

Hauling his worn, chipped sword over his shoulder, he skips over the last body and onto the grass, the coolness welcoming to the tough skin. The rain hasn’t yet begun to fall and, if he runs, he thinks he can make it to the river before it turns red. As fast as his body can, he sprints to the shrine, stopping only once when he stepped on a particularly sharp rock that cut open the soft of his foot. There’s no time to waste gaping over it, quick air sucked up in pain, continuing forward. The shrine is quiet, leftover blankets and lanterns still oiled from the night before, the army undoubtedly planning to return to this spot after the battle. He quickly clamours up the tree he’d stayed in the prior night and grabs the bucket he’d hung, jumping down and into the grass below. He seizes up his sword once more, sliding down the hill the shrine rested on to make it where the river bank began. 

The water is cool and thankfully still clear, so he strips off his robe and sinks his feet into the stream. It bubbles and dances and he watches the blood flow off and down the river, disappearing. Wading further in, he scrubs off what grime he can, wavy hair falling flat against the top of his head, dripping water droplets onto his nose. It feels good to bathe, the chill of the river energizing and uplifting as it ran over his skin. He slowly cleans underneath his nails as a way of procrastinating getting out and once done, with an exasperated huff, he shakes what water he can out of his hair and gets out. 

Dressed and with his bucket filled, he makes his way around the hill, the climb up too steep to manage with the pale of water. He makes sure to take the grassiest route so that his feet could stay the cleanest possible, he didn’t want too much getting into his new angry and still a little bloody addition. 

The night was now almost entirely over the land, a mere sliver of the sun’s glow in the distance the last remaining piece of light in the sky, as the clouds had since obstructed the moon from appearing. It was going to rain any second now, so he gathered what little supplies the army had left out and hauled them into the coverage of the shrine’s single room. It’s a dark and clumsy job but by the time the first pour of rain comes everything is inside safe with him for the night. 

He lights what single lantern he can manage to make start and sets it in the corner, bringing his sword up near him. The oil in the lantern probably won’t last for long but he hopes that by that time he’ll already be asleep. The rickety doors are shut, the background noise of the rain offering a nice whiteness to doze off to. He’s alone. Hungry, tired, and insatiably alone. 

-

The next time he wakes, it’s to the snap of a thin branch outside, near the entrance of the shrine. His head shoots up, hand gripping the sword in his grasp tightly as he waited for another telling noise of movement. It’s still dark out, the lantern beside him cold, the rain stopped albeit for the droplets falling off of leaves outside. It’s eerily quiet, but he takes some solace in knowing that whoever or whatever is out there doesn’t know he’s behind the closed doors. With that at heart, he picks himself up from the ground, nimble and soundless feet making his way around to the side of the door to attack if needed. 

Had there not been for a glow of light that leaked in through the crack, he would have never known that someone was outside. The person was as silent, if not more, than he was. If it had not been for this realization, his heart wouldn’t be racing as fast as it was, a slight tremble in his hands as he held onto the grip of his shabby weapon. 

No matter how silent their steps were, everyone bled the same. 

The door creaks open, the person supposedly peering in, scoping out the darkness. He waits, the person looks, the door is pushed open just a little bit further and he shifts over so that his next move he can swing fully. 

The person, a woman he thinks, now has her head all the way through, distracted by the un-dusty and out-of-place supplies in the back of the shrine. Her locks of hair peak from the side of the door but woman or not, he still can’t have her invading his home. 

Settling his breathing, he steps several inches closer, readjusts his grip on his sword, and _swings._ He’s fast, out from behind the door in a second, a swift silver gleam in the woman’s lantern light as his blade heads straight for her neck. There’s a look of surprise in there from both of them, the woman who he now sees is actually a man catching up to what was occurring. Time seems to tick indefinitely slow, then all at once, it stops.

Not in actuality, but his sword swing never makes it into flesh, stopped a centimeter away from pale skin as the man looming over him latched onto the tip of his blade with the soft of his fingers. He realizes this, and, for the first time in what seems like forever, he panics. Scrambling, breath heavy and trying to pull his blade away for another attack, the boy falls to the ground, the man laughing lightly in the lantern’s glow. 

“Quite the surprise, I must say.” The man says, voice exceedingly gentle, vastly unfit for someone who just had an assassination attempt on him mere moments prior. “You must be that corpse-eating demon I keep hearing about.”

He doesn’t say anything back, red eyes staring into red, the two unmoving. 

“You’ve got quite the bit of stuff here, I see… but still your stomach grumbles with hunger and your blade is dim from a battle not yours. Unfit circumstances for a cute little legend like yourself, wouldn’t you say?” The man smiles and his eyes wrinkle at the corners, the boy unsure of how to process this turn of events. It had been a long time since someone had talked to him and an even longer time since he talked back, solitude ingrained into the very fibers of his being. 

He tries to stutter out words, not exactly sure what words but some form of a reply to combat his brain’s short-circuiting. As he expected, they fall to grumbles off his tongue, his voice having forgotten how to speak in the time since he last used it. The man just smiles again at his shortcoming, sitting down before him in the doorway. 

“What is your name, demon?”

He has to replay it through his head a few times, hearing the sounds of the syllables and how they should come off his tongue. It takes him a few tries and like a baby deer learning to walk, it’s a stumbly and foreign feeling but eventually, he mutters out a soft _Sakata Gintoki._

“Sakata Gintoki? A fine name, very fitting with that head of hair you’ve got.” The man chuckles and in the same moment, grabs his sword by the sheathe and pulls it out from his belt. It’s clean and well maintained, not a scratch on the cover to be seen, only finely crafted and sanded wood that was soft to the touch. The mysterious man holds it out to him and Gintoki takes it hesitantly, the weight much heavier than his own shabby excuse for a weapon. He holds it in his lap, drawing it until he could see his reflection looking back at him in the lantern light. He’d forgotten what he looked like, the rivers never quite calm enough to remind him when he looked into their waters. It was fascinating. The curl of his hair, the gleam of his eyes, the chappedness of his lips, he didn’t want to look away. When he finally did, his attention was only a small shift from his reflection to the blade itself, finely polished and unsurprisingly sharp to the touch. He sucks on his cut finger quickly, not wanting to put a bloody fingerprint on the blade. 

“It’s yours.” The man says, Gintoki’s head shooting up, eyes wide with confusion and stifled glee. “That is if you come with me. I’ll see to it that your stomach never hungers again, would you like that?” 

Gintoki isn’t sure what part of him says yes because he had the very least of clues as to what he was getting himself into. However, what the man with silken tan hair and glowing red eyes was offering had to be better than his circumstances now, after all, a full stomach was half of the battle itself. He wanted a change of scenery and more than that, he wanted to live. He’d stepped over enough bodies and searched through enough pockets to know that for sure. 

So, he nods his head in acceptance, hands still wrapped around his new sword, getting up after the man.

“Very well then, follow me.” He starts, heading down the few stairs of the shrine, in the direction of the nearest village. “We’ll get some shoes for those feet once the market begins to open up.”

Gintoki nods quickly, just a step behind the man when suddenly, it hits him. He struggles through the pronunciation of the words, hoping his flimsy Japanese would get better soon. Eventually, he thinks he has the sentence so he clears his throat to catch the attention of the man and once he’s got that, mutters out the statement. 

“My name?” The man smiles thinly at the question, Gintoki nodding his head in affirmation. “I have many, but you can call me Utsuro.”

-

Gintoki’s Japanese does get better as he uses it more over the weeks, though he still tries not to talk too much. Utsuro had led them all across the countryside, but now he was in the bustling streets of a city he hadn’t seen before, a woven ajirogasa hat atop both their heads to protect from the heat of the day. Men, women, and children flood the street, going throughout their day. Samurai drunkenly laugh from the bars, telling each other tales Gintoki only picks up little pieces of. 

Utsuro hadn’t given away much on where they were going, only that it was always for work, a work Gintoki assumed he’d be getting himself into soon. He had however picked up enough from Utsuro to know that they were supposed to be invisible, never drifting too far into anyone’s consciousness that they would remember a name or face. Though, it wasn’t like Utsuro ever gave someone his real name, or what Gintoki knew for it to be.

No, they simply came and left as quickly as had arrived, no information, no connections. 

Still, even with this requirement for a ghost-like existence, he found himself thriving in the journey. Like right now, the city was full of interesting things to see and look at, things he had only heard existed from tales of soldiers. There’s a castle in the distance, one of the highest points in the city and when he asked Utsuro what it was, he found out that the name of it was Edo Castle, where the shogun lived. He wasn’t quite sure who the shogun was, having only briefly heard the name a couple of times before, but if he lived in such a nice palace then he must be important, Gintoki decides. 

Like a puppy, he follows after Utsuro, allowing his eyes to wander through the people. There’s life here in the city unlike the countrysides, where the only thing that everyone has there is a bad back and a rice field. There are stores, lots of them, all selling different things Gintoki had never seen before, trade from some foreign land. There are dojos too, which Gintoki gets the pleasure of peeking into when Utsuro leaves him alone for a second, disappearing into a building with the instructions for Gintoki to stay in place outside. 

The dojo is full of boys his age, swinging their swords in rhythm, chanting out the number of the collective movement. The owner, an old man with graying hair and a young girl in his arms is called outside by another man just a couple of yards away from where Gintoki was standing, the two obviously irked at the other’s presence. 

“I can’t pay you this month.” The dojo owner says lowly, away from the prying eyes and ears of his students. “My wife is sickly and pregnant with our second child, her medical bills are piling up quickly… I don’t know how I’ll do it but I’ll get you the money eventually, I promise― just a little while longer, please sir.” 

“You’re walking on thin ice, Shimura. You know the boss doesn’t like to wait.”

“I know, I know,” the man soothes, “it’s not ideal for me either, please give me patience.”

The other man merely grumbles a reply in return to the dojo owner's plea, something off-handedly rude and short, walking toward Gintoki. The perm stares at him, the collector staring back.

“What’re you looking at, brat?” The man spits at him angrily, Gintoki shrugging his shoulders. “Whaddya mean you don’t know? Those dead-fish looking balls in your head must be seeing something, asshole!” 

“I’m blind.” 

The man’s head pulls back from his quickly, giving him a scornful, confused look. “You don’t look blind.”

“Frankly, sir, I wouldn’t know.” Gintoki retorts.

The irritable man gives him a frown, nose curling, seemingly done with the conversation and walks away, the perm turning to the dojo owner, smirking. The owner smiles back knowingly, retreating once more to the boys still hard at work, just past their two-hundredth practice swing.

Gintoki watches them for a while longer until Utsuro finally steps out of the building he had disappeared into, the perm following closely behind him. They walk through the back alleys of the city, Gintoki losing track of how much time they spend walking, it seeming like hours. His feet hurt, sandals rubbing blisters in between his toes, sword heavy on his back. 

There are birds squawking and laughing overhead, white-bellied and greedy, plunging down in between the buildings and fighting each other in the air. There’s also this smell, one he can’t quite seem to put his finger on, accompanied by the sound of something that fills up his ears more than the squeals of birds or the chatter of men at work. 

The alleyway is thin and he too short to see around Utsuro, his curiosity stifled by a silent hand held back in warning of his impatience. Gintoki frowns, biting the inside of his lip, hands antsy. 

It’s not but several steps before they make it out of the alley, a gust of wind blowing his loose hat to the side of his head. Men are scurrying, lifting boxes together and placing them onto boats. The smell of salt in the back of his throat revealing itself to be the wide, never-ending blue scape of the ocean. He’d heard of it once before when he was following an army of amanto, the creature describing it as massive, taking up the majority of the planet with big, rolling waves that could down a ship in one fatal swoop. Gintoki wasn’t entirely sure about the last part, but he could definitely see how it took up most of the land.

It’s beautiful, the way that the water shines in the sun, waves crashing gently against the wood of the dock, noise serene and calming. He’s tempted to go run out and look, to jump down to the lower part of the dock and run his hands through it, to see if it really did taste like the salt the wind smelled of. He’s tempted, but he knows better than to act out, remembering that hand that gets warningly stuck out if he does something deemed too much by Utsuro. 

Utsuro leads them up a ramp to a ship, the blisters on his feet protesting the angle all the way up. The moment he’s off and onto the vessel, the ramp is drawn up and onto the deck. There are a couple of men on the deck, dressed much like Utsuro, black and white garb closely akin to what he’d seen ninjas wear, except for one man, who approaches Utsuro immediately upon sight. 

The man was in a Buddhist monk’s robe, heavy-looking beads draped around his neck, hair the color of Gintoki’s own, if not a little dimmer. He bows, a quick but firm _“Utsuro-sama”_ in greeting, looking down at the child beside Utsuro’s side. “We are ready to leave upon your order.” He says, eyes back up to his superior, seemingly not wanting to pry in affairs that were not his. 

“Leave, then.” Utsuro commands swiftly, the other man turning to nod up at where the ship’s captain was. In the next second, the ship begins to turn, undocking itself from the port. Everything moved at Utsuro’s discretion, Gintoki could see clearly enough the importance of his stature merely from the speed and readiness that the men under him exercised.

The man with the gray hair looked down at him again, Utsuro placing a gentle hand on the top of the perm’s hat. “Training begins tomorrow, no time to waste with this one.” The man nods firmly in reply, “Private training by you until you see it fit to move him up. Show him to a room, then around the ship.” 

The man bows, “As you wish.” 

Utsuro walks away then, hands clasped behind his back, and, just like that, the days of being a silver shadow to his rescuer came to a close.

-

Three weeks of five in the morning training sessions and the boy was already adjusting to his new lifestyle. Though despondent about seeing his father-figure less, he’d come to bond with the other man, Oboro, almost as equally. Since Oboro was the one leading his training, he had gained a magnitude of respect for his elder. Which, he assumed, was how the other felt as well, since the man would take the time out of his day to teach the perm to read and write after dinner, something that Gintoki hadn’t heard Oboro be ordered to do. 

He’d learned a multitude of things since stepping foot onto the ship, more than simple student knowledge. Fighting techniques like how to disarm and kill an opponent in three moves or less, _always quick, never prolonged,_ Oboro would repeat. He still had no clue what all of this training was for, what his ‘brothers’ would leave and go do when they docked at a port, Utsuro giving quick, dry praise when they returned. He didn’t know, but he craved it. 

It was something about the distance, the admiration that the ship carried for Utsuro, how he seemed to just fall back into being something of a past-time, only noticed when the perm would sneak into his chambers and catch him reading or working. Gintoki would merely sit by the corner of his bed frame, looking at the night’s clouds through the window of the ship, listening to Utsuro turn pages of books or the scrape of his quill on the paper when it became low on ink, his body aching and sore from the day’s events. 

He craved attention. 

It was hard to go back to feeling alone in a ship full of people, he didn’t like sinking back into the shadows, he wanted to be there by the side of his father. If it took brutal training every morning at the crack of dawn, blood, and sleepness nights for him to regain that closeness, then he would do it over and over again, however many times necessary.

[ eleven ]

Eventually, that attention did come, manifesting itself in the quick smile that Utsuro would give him in the group practices after breakfast. He’d been on the ship for several months now, (six, to be precise) personalized training to catch him up to the brothers older than him had ended at the three-month mark, now, everything was together. A unit, Oboro would call them, and they worked like it― the repetitiveness of group training reminding him much of the dojo he’d watched upon entering Edo.

Every now and then, however, there was a switch up to their rigorously fluid system. Sparring, much like Oboro had done with him except it was with the other brothers, and the entire day was dedicated to it.

Today was one of those days, where Gintoki felt it coming simply because of the gleam in Oboro’s eyes when he’d caught his own; the anticipation of it all making his fingers curl restlessly into his palms. He’d only participated a few times before, the other times forced to sit back and watch by Oboro’s command that he wasn’t ready, which only made his blood boil more when his father would come into the room, smile cold, not quite the same. 

He was ready though, and the first time he had gotten the chance, he’d busted a lip in the initial few swings of the wooden weapon, grinning from ear to ear, pride welling up in his chest. Oboro was quick to humble him however, metal end of his shakujō sharply meeting the curve of the back of his neck, the order to never show emotion barked as his ears rang. Needless to say, he’d done better the next time.

They got in a circle around the tatami mats like they usually did and though no one could say anything, there’s a fire growing in the room, anticipation for action and blood. The first pair step out and into the ring, wordless. There’s a bow, symbolling the “brotherhood” forged by healthy competition, then, with the wave of Oboro’s hand, the two are at each other’s throats. 

_It’s what makes a fighter, the tenacity at which one swings, the controlled, calculated movements of the body,_ Oboro would always say, the words ingrained into Gintoki’s being because he didn’t start out being a fighter with an attribute even close to control. No, he’d had to get that beaten into him too. 

The shorter of the two fighters fall, the taller one looming above, the wooden rod they used to mimic the metal staff of all the older members pressed into his neck. Oboro calls off the fight, the two going back to their respective places, the next two up called forward. This continues on for a while, but it doesn’t get too interesting until the door to the training room creaks open, Utsuro silently taking his place next to Oboro, who always respectfully bows. 

Gintoki feels his heart begin to speed, the need to prove himself floating in the pit of his stomach like butterflies. 

He’s the youngest in the group, everyone had it out for him for one reason or another, be it they knew of how he arrived or they were tired of being outshined by a kid a couple of years inferior than them. More commonly, it was both. Everyone knew that Gintoki was hand-picked, personally trained, the next golden child of the organization like Oboro, the previous child prodigy. (But he wouldn’t disgrace himself as Oboro had done, he’d make sure of it.) Though they all were brothers and sisters under the Naraku, the envy was ripe, lingering, boiling just under the surface. Gintoki just assuming no one did anything about it because of the competition it brought, the need for success in the name of good performance.

The fight finishes, Gintoki’s eyes glued on his gray-haired counterpart, waiting for his name to be called. Oboro knows even without looking who’s vision it is burning holes into him― and, be it for a penalty for Gintoki’s blatant greed or the want to see him succeed, he pins Gintoki up against the biggest kid in the lot of them, the only one Gintoki sees himself having a hard time with. 

No matter the inner turmoil, he walks down as emotionless as possible, feeling the weight of his father’s eyes on him. His opponent for the day is stark-faced across from him, his eyes downcast and demeaning, the only thing he could convey without Oboro interfering with his cold metal shakujō. Gintoki grips the wood tightly, pushing back the doubts growing in the back of his mind. Regardless of who it was, he would win. He had to if he wanted to be able to stand next to his father as Oboro did. 

Oboro’s hand raises, they bow, the air in the room heavy with stifled anticipation, then, all at once, the hand comes down and his opponent descends upon him. He’s quick, Gintoki barely able to step out of the way of the swing before there’s another. He gets hit once, rough wood scraping the side of his face and he stumbles back with the impact, teeth bared. The room is quiet, engaged in watching the action take place before them, like statues glued in a continuous gaze. 

Though being the smaller of the two brought some disadvantages, Gintoki knew he wasn’t entirely overmatched. He understood well that his nimble, quiet feet that he had always practiced would be the key in tripping up his sizable problem. While his opponent seemed determined to best him from the front with heavy, rapid swings that pushed him back when guarded, Gintoki knew better than to play this game on only one side. Rolling to the weaker left of the teen, he blocked the blow that came down next to his shoulder, using the off-balanced stance of his attacker to drive him forward, felled onto the mat. 

Gintoki is on him in a second, his opponent’s weapon kicked from his hands but unable to stop the fist that ends up colliding with his lip before he has time to see the hand even drawn back. There’s another punch thrown in order to fling him off but it misses its mark, Gintoki catching his wrist while his foot seals the other hand, pinning it down. There’s a struggle that follows, the kid manages to break his hand away for a moment, trying and failing at catching flesh, nails only connecting to scratch red, angry marks into Gintoki’s neck. However, by the time he does get a hand on the perm’s throat, the end of Gintoki’s weapon is bearing into his own, one push away from breaking something important. 

He can feel the older boy swallow underneath his weapon, the reality of the outcome catching up to him. They’re gasping for air, Gintoki’s bloody lip dripping down onto his brother’s cheek, his hair beginning to stick to his forehead. Oboro waves them up, Gintoki stepping off and returning to his place, the other kid doing the same, hand stroking the tenderness of his neck. 

Utsuro’s eyes catch his own and his body eases upon seeing the smile he’d longed for so badly. His father exchanges some quick words underneath his breath to Oboro, who was getting ready to start the next fight. Oboro nods, hand coming down, the fight commenced. Gintoki watches Utsuro all the way to the door where, instead of walking out to other businesses like he usually does, he motions for Gintoki to follow. 

Confused but unapologetically giddy at the sole selection, Gintoki steps out of his place in the circle, hands behind his back and follows his father out of the door. Utsuro says nothing to him immediately, only another motion of his head to instruct the younger to accompany him to wherever he had in mind. He silently follows, eventually led into an empty room, void of much furniture save for a few candelabras.

He’s told to sit and Utsuro leaves once more, Gintoki taking the time to nurse his throbbing wounds. Though Gintoki had taken more hits, he’d won because he had gotten to a lethal position the quickest, which was what mattered ultimately in the end. He had the stamina and the tolerance to take blows if he _had_ to, especially when faced against opponents larger and stronger than himself. Exploiting weaknesses was all that hand-to-hand combat was about, whoever could down their opponent the quickest taking the life. 

His neck burns to the touch, four long marks red across his skin. He’s sure his cheek is no better, little pieces of wood still lingering in the skin he’ll have to search for later. He rubs and picks out what he can, sucking on his lip in the process. Utsuro returns sometime soon, just when his body was beginning to grow sleepy from the candle light’s glow. 

He’s got a shakujō in hand, it’s clean and polished, undoubtedly new, Gintoki shifting to kneel on his knees respectfully. 

“Tomorrow,” his father begins, voice light, “We’ll be docking in Edo once more. There are two men I need you to take care of, do you think you can do that?” Gintoki nods quickly, excitement welling up but, of course, unable to show it. He takes the weapon carefully, holding it in his lap. “Return tomorrow with your job done and I will have something else for you then. As for the details, Oboro will find the time eventually to tell you.” 

Gintoki nods once more, a hand placed gently on the top of his head, thin smile across Utsuro’s pale lips. He’s then told that he can retire for the rest of the night till dinner, his father leaving the room without another word. Gintoki does as he’s told, his room a welcome reprieve, the shakujō shining under the candlelight on his bedside table.

-

Oboro never did meet him that night, instead wakening him a couple of hours earlier than usual, tossing a new set of clothes onto his bed next to his cold feet and wordlessly ordering him to get dressed and meet him in the dojo in the next fifteen minutes; just enough time to get dressed and freshen up before his work began.

The shirt he was given was tight-fitting, the loose white pants and black over-garment gave off a monkish semblance, the outfit typical of that which the older members of the Naraku wore. 

He made it to the dojo with five minutes to spare, much to his superior’s satisfaction. As soon as Oboro laid eyes on the boy, he disappeared from the room, only to return shortly after with a new, finely woven ajirogasa. He squatted down to Gintoki’s level, the hat placed on top of his head delicately and tied to secure it neatly below his chin, the action far too tender for Gintoki’s liking. 

Oboro stood up once done, a bizarre softness in his voice when he spoke. “You’re a smart kid, Gintoki. You knew this day was coming, right?” He watched the younger boy adjust his hat so he could look up at him. “This is what all those early mornings were for, I know you won't disappoint.”

Gintoki had never been one for such verbose theatrics, simply replying, “Just tell me what I need to do and it will be done.” 

The older man pulled a map out of his pocket, opening it to show the boy it’s contents. “We’re currently docked in Edo. You need to follow this route up to the red-light district to meet the informant waiting for you in a roadside bar with wine-red banners, he will direct you from there. Remember,” he started to fold the map up again, “leave no witnesses. Your targets are two bakufu officials. Come back successful or do not come back at all, this is your first and final test.”

The boy solemnly nods, long since in understanding of his role. He turns and leaves, his father’s sword at his hip, Oboro’s eyes on his back. 

Once off the ship, the cold, harbor air immediately stuck to his skin. Snow fell lightly down in never-ending flutters as he ran from alley to alley, breath chilly against his lips. He doubted many people would be scattered on the streets in such unforgiving weather and since the sun had yet to come out, the probability of meeting an unwanted presence was low. Still, he took caution to stay away from open areas of road, stopping his breathing when peeking around corners so the clouded vapor could not give away his location. 

To his surprise, it wasn’t very far into his journey that he spotted the bar with the wine-red banners and movement that stirred within it. Taking care that his path was clear before crossing the street, Gintoki pushed aside the curtains, startling the presence inside of the bar’s worn wooden walls. 

The middle-aged man narrowed his eyes, not ceasing from cleaning the bowl in his hands. “So you must be the assassin.” He waited for a verbal answer from the boy, but none came, only a slight nod of the head. _“Pfft,_ you don’t look like much, but who am I to judge what your people deem worthy up there?” The man scoffed, going back to work. “Ah, anyways, your men got in a little hold up last night when headed to the palace. You’ll find both of them sleepin’ like babes in a nearby brothel.” He makes a face, seemingly at an inner realization. “Like you would know what that is… the place has a light purple roof, the only one ‘round here like it.”

The boy dipped his hat in thanks, disappearing back out of the curtains, only to circle around behind the shack, blade half pulled out from sheath― poised for the attack. Leave no witnesses, he was told. The door swung open, but by the time the man had turned, a sheen of crimson had already coated the blade on the other side of the bartender’s body. 

_“Y-You… bra―”_ He coughed, the blood spewing from his mouth cutting off his words; Gintoki pulled his sword out a moment later, the life pooling out of the soon-to-be corpse. Crimson snaked it’s way down his wrist, dripping onto the snow by his feet. He swung hard down with his blade, in an effort to cleanse what blood off he could. The informant was slumped into one of the corners of the shack, left to be discovered when the boy was far gone and the dawn long turned to day. 

He winded his way through cramped alleys filled with trash and various animals; rats, cats, and dogs, of which he was careful not to wake, fearing their loud mouths could end up ruining his cover. The purple-roofed place could be seen in the distance and he wasn’t but maybe a block away until he saw the second sign of life in the dingy outskirts of the city. It came when he was right next to the so-called “brothel” building, a guardsman on duty, his lantern huddled close to his body for warmth as he loitered through the street; yawning every few steps, complaining about something Gintoki couldn’t pick up. The threat was only momentary, however, and he slipped into the building effortlessly, quiet steps only visible by the marks in the snow. 

Immediately as he slid open the door, he was greeted by two things: women in cages with extravagant robes displayed on their thin bodies, and a sweet smell of something he couldn’t quite name, only picking up sweat in the bizarre aroma. He could plainly describe it as a fleshy scent, one he wasn’t too keen of either as it nipped at his nostrils like little fish. 

Much to his satisfaction, no one seemed to be stirring on the first floor. The few women were fast asleep, the front desk vacant, the stairway clear. He snuck around the desk, hoping to maybe find something to help him identify his two targets. 

The paper was split into two sections, he assumed one half to be the downstairs area of the building and the other to be the upper. The lower section was filled with a variety of names, some he’d seen in books and others the same names of his brethren. What he believed to be the upstairs area of the building contrasted the lower half, with two long, wealthy-looking names with letters he could not decipher. 

Making his way up the quiet staircase, the restless wooden boards creaked and shifted under his weight, a sound he hoped would not lead to any prying ears. Once up, the first four rooms which he cracked the door open to held no life, just graciously prepared futons and silently burning incense. 

The fifth door, however, was a much different story. Four people resided in it, two males, two females, nakedness only exposed from the chest up as they slept nestled in the blankets. Beside the window lay multiple garments, strewn off in a haste, not bothered to be hung up. It’s not hard to tell which was which, the men’s yukatas made from a fine, woven silk that almost glittered in the small lighting coming from the window, the women’s from a cloth blemished and torn in more places than he could count.

He makes his way over to them, soft feet silent against the flooring, decision presenting itself as he unsheathed his blade. The women were not his targets, he did not need to take their lives. However, the risk was far too great, should they awaken as he is trying to make his escape and scream, the results would be less than satisfactory for his father. 

Once more, Oboro’s words fall into his ears, _“Come back successful or do not come back at all.”_

The decision was made and Gintoki unsheathed his sword quietly, the blood from before still wet on the blade, giving a tint to the shiny metal. Carefully held his hand over the first male mouth, drawing the blade black quickly, slicing through the flesh to ensure a swift, silent kill. The official had awoken too late, and the liquid gargled from the slit when he’d tried to scream in rebuttal. When he’d finished with the last person, blood had already begun pooling around the four heads, futons soaked and stained, their eyes frozen open in a distant stare of their final moment of realization.

Of course, once the men were dead, there was no further purpose staying in the purple roofed building. Thankfully, his trek back to the ship was as straightforward as it had been the way from it. As soon as his foot stepped onto the deck, the bridge to the vessel began retracting and the ship slowly started moving. Gintoki looked up into the commanding room, only to see his father staring back down at him, disappearing out of view but a moment later.

Gintoki practically skipped through the ship’s hallways in an effort to reach the dojo where hopefully, Oboro would be doing morning training. He’d almost reached his destination when his collar to his shirt had gotten yanked back, forcing all the momentum he had to propel himself into one-half of his clothes. 

“An assassin does not make excess noise, but yet look at you, swinging your sword while running, causing such a ruckus. Whatever shall I do with you?” A sing-song voice chirped, still holding the boy up by his collar as he rotated him around to face him. 

“Father! I did as Oboro said.” Gintoki looked up at a familiar smile, unable to help the elation he felt from finishing his job with such success, but more so the attention it was bringing.

“I heard,” Utsuro let him go, then leaned down to wipe a streak of blood off the side of a pale cheek, flushed red with the cold. “What a mess. Go get freshened up, I’ll tell Oboro of the good news. When you’re done, come find me.” 

As soon as the conversation was over, he made short time of washing himself and when he returned to the dojo, his father and Oboro were speaking, surrounded by three other higher-ranked Naraku. Only one of which he recognized, Hitsugi, who would lead training sessions when Oboro had other matters. 

When Utsuro saw him he smiled again, pausing the conversation with a dictative wave of his hand. Everyone stopped talking, their attention now on the boy who’d brought his sword back with him to be cleaned. 

“Ah, there you are, Gintoki. I’ve informed Oboro of your accomplishments and he is just as proud of your work as I am.” 

Gintoki bows as thanks, hands held behind his back, sword clasped tightly. “I’ve bloodied your sword, father.”

“Nevermind that,” He kneeled on one knee before the ashen haired boy, taking the sword and unsheathing it halfway to inspect its grime. ”You’ve kept good care of it, as any fit assassin should.” 

Gintoki nodded hurriedly, childish mannerisms earning a look from Oboro over Utsuro’s shoulder. Utsuro, once more, waves his hand back at him. “Of course, you gave it to me, how could I not?”

His father reached into a pocket in his robe, drawing something from it. “In other matters, Edo will soon be mourning the loss of two Bakufu officials, thanks to you and your keen skills. I was debating on when to do this, but I do believe now is a good time.” He motioned for the boy to turn around, the command immediately obeyed. The boy closed his eyes, waiting for the surprise. He felt something go around his head, brushing tufts of hair lightly, shortly followed by the press of something around his neck, then fastened in the back. “There.”

He opened up his eyes, first going up to touch the gift. It was made of wooden beads, sizes and shapes varying. He turned back around to face Utsuro and the others, before drawing his blade to see his reflection in the red-tinted metal. A choker looped around his throat, it’s snug fit almost too overbearing. 

He pulled at the front of it, “It’s... tight…” 

“It is meant to be. You’ll grow accustomed to its feeling in due time, everyone does.” 

“Why a wooden necklace?”

“Oboro told you that job was important, yes?” He received an affirmative nod. “That mission was an... initiation, so to say― to see if you can handle your place by my side. Most children about your age are required to go through many other tests such as that one, but you have yet to disappoint me in any regard other than petty thievery of extra strawberries from the kitchen.” Utsuro smiled at him again, eyes passively threatening, warning, only to lighten back up a moment later. 

He stands, a hand reaching out and settling on top of his head gently, Utsuro’s only way of showing physical affection. “With those beads around your neck, I can now call you one of my own.” He says, voice soft, hand falling into place behind his father’s back, the knowing eyes of the members around him watching the scene unfold. “Welcome to the Tenshouin Naraku, Gintoki. I have _very_ high expectations for your future.”

[ fifteen ]

Their wooden swords clashed against one another, the blow sending vibrations through the air and down his arm like poison, a pain almost venomous. There was something more in those strikes, something threatening and alluring all the same, enticing no matter the palpably dangerous mystery behind it. There were very few things that could peak such a sensation in him, most of which were exclusive to Utsuro.

They’d been sparring for a while now and he could vividly recall a time earlier in his childhood that this... _feeling_ didn’t envelope him whenever he practiced with his father. He couldn’t quite figure out what it was, but it only seemed to grow stronger and more prominent the older he got.

Gintoki had first realized the difference in Utsuro’s demeanor when they spared the first time after his initiation, the sensation one Oboro could never give him. If Gintoki had to put an image to it, it would be Utsuro’s never-changing smile. Both were things he couldn’t wrap his mind around, no matter how hard he tried. The emptiness of the smile and the brutality of wooden blows was something he could only classify as supernatural, the strength of a beast unfitting of this world.

He was aware of this fact and even more so, he was aware that he was expected to grow up the split image. Hell, he wasn’t far from him already. Through the meticulous and bloody five years he’d been an assassin, the tiny ten-year-old boy had grown unrecognizable. His facial features had started sinking, his eyes more hollowed, his cheekbones and jawline defined and sharp. Had it not been for the hair, Gintoki could’ve been easily mistaken for sharing the same blood as Utsuro― another thing he would’ve added to his growing, feared name.

The constant reign of blows trying to make their marks on his flesh kept him on his toes, he had little time to steady himself for the oncoming swing because the next would be right on his tail. Though, he did pride himself on his ability to keep his own offense anchored close behind his father’s. After all, once Utsuro was in this mood, the only thing stopping it would be a speck of his own blood or a lot of Gintoki’s. Truthfully, he was sure that his father had tried to kill him at least a few times, only spared before the act actually could occur by either Oboro or his last ounce of self-restraint. 

Killing was natural for both of them, the smell of metallic as normal as the sweetness of sweat. The only ones that could understand one another were himself and his father, and it was at that moment Gintoki realized why he was the favored one. 

He had come to sense Utsuro’s emptiness and didn’t merely tolerate it, but embraced it, all subconsciously. From being the silver shadow to the golden child, he thrived in the lifestyle― from the killing to the hanging on death’s doorstep, it was all second nature. This is why he was picked, why he was sheltered and trained to the brink of death, all in order to make a machine.

This one bout of their sparring time had been going on for what seemed like forever, and as increasingly exhausted as he was, he could start to see the wear of repetitive movement on Utsuro’s face as well, manifesting itself in sweat glistening lightly on his forehead― one of the few human characteristics the man had.

Not to be confused, it wasn’t as if his father was anywhere close to giving him a break in the battle to catch his breath. No, Utsuro had been nitpicking at his weak spots for a while and it was not unknown to either of them that it was catching up quickly. Eventually, the weight of fatigue had started holding back his movements, making them sluggish and ineffective at best. In a last-ditch effort as quickly as his body could, he caught the swing of his father’s sword, throwing his leg over it with an attempt to disarm. Of course, it didn’t work, and the unforgiving and inhuman strength of a fist met his back, sending him straight to the ground below. 

His father stares down at him, an amused gleam in his eyes as Gintoki tried and failed to lift himself up from the mat. 

“What was that last move?” There was a small chuckle as he rolled over onto his back, the pain mixing with the settling of aching muscles and fatigue. He wiped at his nose, the sting, tenderness, and blood he received in return enough to tell him he’d done something lovely to it.

It took him a moment to collect his bearings, Gintoki already beginning to regret the hours ahead. It wasn’t the worst ache he’d walked out of a spar with, but it certainly wasn’t something he was used to either. “I don’t know… seemed like a good idea.” 

“On anyone but me, maybe.” He watched Utsuro sit down a few feet away from himself and wipe his forehead off with the back of his sleeve. “I must admit though, you had me working there at the end.” When all he got was a tired huff in reply, he carried on with his sentence. “Though, what were you thinking about? I saw the moment you detached. This is rare of you, nothing I should be concerned over, right?” 

Gintoki laughed at the last sentence, both of them knowing it was meant as a joke, despite how serious it had been said. “I was just thinking about how I’ve changed from my first mission all those years ago.” 

“Is that so? Not what I was expecting.” 

He would’ve asked what that entailed, however, he knew with his father being the man he was that no answer would be given, so he let the conversation drop. He caught his breath for a couple of moments before the next words were said. 

“Gintoki, would you like to hear a story?” Utsuro nonchalantly suggests, earning a sideways, confused glance from the teen. 

“What is this all about?” He inquires, still struggling to find even leveled breathing. Gintoki picks up and downs the last of his water, tossing it to the side once more, waiting for his teacher to carry on. 

Utsuro dismisses his question, continuing. “It’s an old fairy tale, one of a demon. One day, these two siblings decided to venture into the woods before dinner, told not to be back later than dark. They leave a trail of pebbles behind them, not wanting to lose their way back home. Right before the end of dusk, they realize that they had lost track of time and needed to head home. However, when they looked back for their path of pebbles, it was gone. They were sure they had not wandered that far off, and could not believe they had ruined their trail after all the work they’d put into it. 

As the night went on and their hope for finding their pebble path growing slimmer each second the sun dropped, they met a demon in disguise. The demon told them that they’d find nothing in this light and that they should take refuge at his house for the night. Without any better ideas, the children agreed and as soon as they made it safely to his house, the demon turned on them, locking them up in a cage. Every day he would feed them more, fattening them up so he could have the richest tasting meal possible―” Utsuro stops, interrupted by a low chuckle before he could continue on with the story.

Gintoki grins warmly, having finally figured it out. The feeling that Utsuro felt towards him, that of an unquenchable and incessant _hunger,_ something not even his own bloodlust could understand. “That’s what you do with me, isn’t it?” 

There’s a heartbeat as they watch each other in silence, Gintoki’s blood running down his lip. It’s only after a long moment, the quiet breaks, the two beginning to laugh.

[ sixteen ]

He’s in a small settlement not too far away from Hagi, one hand stuffed in the fold of his robe, the other carrying his shakujō. The metal clings together lightly when it hits the ground, grannies washing their clothes turning up their heads to see the stranger in their midst. None say anything though and return to their work without a word, Gintoki bearing the resemblance of a traveling monk instead of a practiced assassin, exactly how it was supposed to be.

He had already dealt with his target two nights prior, now on his way to return to where the ship would be docked to pick him up, carrying him to wherever he was needed next. His father had ascended to the heavens a few months ago, Gintoki granted a title as one of the Three Wings before he left, Oboro taking Utsuro’s previous position and Gintoki his. He hadn’t seen his father since the ascent and he didn’t know when (or if) he would again, Oboro not much help when asked― typical, they hadn't been getting along recently. 

The village was behind him now, the trail leading through the forest. He allows himself to take off his hat, looking up at the leaves as the sun gleamed through them, the green almost a blinding brightness. It’s peaceful, the mix of temperate spring air and the soft chatting of birds in the trees above. They fly from branch to branch, playing, fighting over straw for nests. A deer runs distantly at the jingle of metal and Gintoki watches it go off until it disappears. The land is calm and without a care in the world, wind rustling through the branches, running through his robe’s sleeve.

Somewhere close by, his ear catches the sound of water running, convincing his feet to wander to it. He’s taken back by his younger self’s way of life, how in tune with nature he was, no matter how hungry his stomach might have been. Off the path, the bushes grow to his knees, some riddled with little red berries, others with bristles. He continues on, minding his step until eventually, the water ran in between his sandals and the bottom of his feet.

His hat is tossed to the side, shakujō gently laid in the grass, falling back into the greenery. The steam is chilly, refreshing the tired muscles it ran over. He stays like this for a while, calmed by the sun peeking through the leaves to warm his skin. It had been a long time since he’d laid out and simply enjoyed something other than the thrill of a fight, the humid sea air not quite as refreshing as the forests. 

Maybe it was because he had grown up like he had, sleeping in trees while the army slumbered below, picking apart what rations he could find when the last man into battle was far from view. 

But that was then and this was now. He’d left that life the moment the weight of his father’s blade fell into his hands, the softness of the wood beneath his toughened fingertips, the sharpness that cut him before he could realize it. He had traded a life of scavenging for a life of order, purpose brought to a boy with little principles other than when his next bite would be.

Still, it was good to reflect every now and then, and it’s just when he’s about to doze off to his thoughts that a plank of wood snaps just over the other side of the hill, jolting him back into the present. 

Calmly, carefully he gets up, securing his hat around his head, rings quiet around the metal loops when he needed them to be. Stepping over the water and climbing up the hill, a voice meets him, hushed tone mellow but equally as stern. 

“Stop that, that will do no good, nor will it bring him back.” It says, only to be met with an angry growl. 

“I don’t give a shit!” 

“Well, I do, you’re desecrating the remains of the school. We don’t have much left to mourn.”

“We don’t have to mourn, he’s not dead, Katsura!” The angry voice barks back at the other. “You surely haven’t forgotten why we joined the war in the first place, have you?! Because lately it’s been seeming like you’re more focused on winning the thing than getting back sensei!”

Gintoki peeks out from atop the hill, hidden by a felled tree just beginning to rot. There are two boys, both around his age, one sitting down in the gravel, his sword next to him. He’s got long hair, tied back in a ponytail, his clothes dirty and worn. The other, angrier boy is looming over him, hands black from breaking some of the wood scattered next to the burned building. He can’t see his face well, but he’s dressed mostly the same, two soldiers stopping by some grounds of importance to them.

He’s seen enough, he should leave, remove himself and be on his way again but something stops him. He’s not sure what, but be it teenage curiosity or just his own momentary stupidity, he stays, wanting to hear out the rest of the exchange. 

“I haven’t forgotten what’s important, Takasugi. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t protect Japan and Shouyo-sensei at the same time.” The long-haired one, Katsura, says and stands up, dusting off the back of his pants. He crosses his arms, demeanor plainly annoyed at the other’s spiteful insistence. 

“Ha, there it is. That _“we can do both”_ scheme again. Don’t make me laugh―” 

Katsura only shrugs in reply to that, cutting the argument off, leaning over and whispering something in the other’s ear. _That,_ Gintoki knew, was not good. He carefully inches back down the hill, grass rustling around the movement of his body. It’s only when he hears the scraping of sandals on the gravel running toward him does he forget all about his noise, sliding down the rest of the hill and splashing through the stream the moment the other two jump over the rotting tree. 

Takasugi yells something in anger behind him and Gintoki can make out the sound of his sword being drawn, then, the repetitive whirl of it as it flies through the air toward him. Gintoki turns, holding onto some brush as he flicks it away with his own weapon, his pursuer grinning ear-to-ear. It’s then that the brush breaks loose from the ground, tossing up dirt, Gintoki’s wet sandal slipping on the smooth grass beneath him. He plummets down and into the crook of earth where the water ran, at the feet of the two.

Takasugi is on him in less than a second, smiling wide, face twisted in something just shy of evil. His hands grasp around Gintoki’s neck and it’s all he can do to try to pry his wrists away, fingers digging into his windpipe. 

“What do we have here?” He coos, sweat dripping down onto his paling face. Katsura is next to him, squatted down to look at Gintoki with eyes of fire, sword drawn. “A crow coming back to see their handy work?” He asks and the perm can do nothing but grit his teeth back, stare locked with Takasugi’s. “Well, here you go. You smell it don’t you?” His grip tightens and Gintoki growls under the force of it, telling black dots rising in the corners of his vision. He doesn’t have much time left. “The smell of the ash on my hands? Is this what you wanted, bastard?!” He bites, _“Huh?”_

Gintoki lets go of one of Takasugi’s hands and throws a joke of a punch, the other blocking it easily, but allowing a reprieve from his throat. He uses that off-balanced movement to try to knock Takasugi off of him, which only works partially, his neck freed but his waist still held down. Takasugi throws a punch that connects with his jaw and Gintoki throws one back that he thinks breaks his nose, the samurai stumbling back over him, Gintoki kicking him into the water, their roles reversed. 

He’d drawn his knife, hidden in the fold of his robe in case an assassination didn’t go as he planed and this was the first time he’d had to use it, the sharp of the knife already beginning to draw blood. Katsura is standing now, sword poised and ready to swing down on him when Gintoki barks, “Stop, or I’ll kill him!” 

The long-haired male does stop as asked, eyes blatantly worried for his friend struggling under the crow’s grip, an open book through and through. “I’ll kill him before you can kill me.” He continues, grinning, Oboro not there to tell him to keep his emotions in check. Takasugi swings at him but it’s just as bad as Gintoki’s first attempt, and he rewards him by cutting deeper into his neck, blood running into the water streaming by his head. 

“Katsura!” Takasugi yelps out, “Kill him!” 

Gintoki watches Katsura’s face, the thought of killing the perm never crossing his mind. “You’re foolish,” he states, sword lowering by his hip, “to sacrifice your life for the head of one crow when there are many others.” Takasugi doesn’t like that, which Gintoki thinks is just the dislike of being proven wrong, he didn’t believe the man had much more than some mush for a brain, if that. 

The man under him utters out something Gintoki doesn’t catch half of, Katsura looking down at him. “This one wasn’t there when they took him away.” 

“It doe-sn’t… _matter!”_

“It does! It’s not worth your life, Shinsuke!” 

“What will it be, Zura?” Gintoki purrs the pet name, growing tired of the situation. “Either he walks home with you or we both bleed out in the water.”

Katsura turns his nose in disgust, not able to look at the perm’s grin any longer. He sheaths his weapon, softly commanding, “Let him go.”

True to his word, Gintoki draws his knife back, leaning up slowly, bloody hands held up to show the surrenderance. Takasugi coughs under him, hand holding the exposed part of his neck, teeth bloody from his nose running. Katsura drags him out of the water and to the other side of the bank. 

The crow grabs up his golden weapon, leaving the hot-headed bleeding asshole to fetch his sword from where it laid in the grass. Washing off his hands in the water and putting on his ajirogasa, he’s just about to leave when Takasugi’s voice grumbles something behind him, his eyes burning holes into his back. 

“What is your name, bastard?”

The perm turns back, looking down into the face twisted with hatred, the reason not entirely known to him. “Gintoki.”

“I’ll kill you one day, Gintoki. Wait for it.” There’s a growl behind his words, solidified by conviction. “You and that gray-haired son of a bitch.”

He merely tips his hat in reply, smirking, ascending the hill to where the path laid not too far from the stream, the jingling of the shakujō following him.

[ seventeen ]

Five months have passed since the encounter with Katsura and Takasugi in Hagi and though Gintoki is not in the war himself, he knows it will be drawing to an end soon. Even without the help of the Naraku, the Joui forces are dying more every day, their leaders disappearing into thin air.

The Dragon of Katsurahama they called him, dead, they now said. However, their other two stubborn generals, the Leader of the Kiheitai and the Rampaging Noble were still holding on strong, the only two things keeping their quickly sinking boat from going entirely under. 

The combination of the amanto, the Bakufu, and the Naraku backed by the Heavens was too much for one measly group of rebels to hold off against for very long, no matter what swordsmanship or titles the leaders held. They were trying to defy something far beyond them, the Tendoshu was an alliance of the universe, the money and resources that flowed through them on a scale even he himself couldn’t grasp. 

Of course, as one of the Three Wings, he was doing his part to make sure the rebels sank. But there was something underlying the surface that bothered him, giving him the same feeling as an itch he couldn't scratch. It just festered, growing until Gintoki had to seek out some sort of answers for it, lest he explode trying to figure it out himself. 

When asked, Oboro had told him very little about what was really going on behind the scenes of the Tenshouin Naraku. Maybe it was because Gintoki was on his way to figuring out the details of his betrayal in its fullness, or maybe it was because he didn’t want Gintoki to thirst for immortal blood. Either way, Gintoki did eventually find out of his father’s secrets, though he couldn't quite say he believed it much until he saw it for himself. 

And eventually, he did. 

The moment came when he’d been given a job he typically viewed as boring, because sitting in a damp dungeon with nothing to do other than sharpen a blade didn’t spark much excitement in, he was sure, pretty much anyone. 

However, he’d known from the moment he turned the corner to the cells that this was going to be different, breath catching in the back of his throat when he’d seen the hair. 

The man looked just like his father from behind, not noticing his presence until Gintoki had accidentally choked on his air like a fool, the man turning around with a smile that was all too familiar to be comforting. He sits down at the chair, the other cells empty, alone with another personality of his father’s and a lot of doubts as to how to get through this encounter. 

It’s not him who speaks first, the man dipping his quill into the ink, writing something down onto the limited supply of paper he’d been given. The words come quick and soft, no underlying tone of superiority or darkness behind them like he’d grown so used to. “What is your name, assassin?” 

Like a child meeting a new adult for the first time, the perm stumbles out the words, the other merely smiling, continuing his work.

“You look at me like you are trying to understand, Gintoki. Are you close to him?” He knows he doesn’t have to answer, the man already knowing. Even so, his mouth opens all the same, a light _‘yes’_ given in reply. The other just nods softly, continuing, “I apologize, this must be all terribly confusing. In this life, I go by Yoshida Shouyo, if that makes this any easier for you.” 

It hits him like a ton of bricks, flooding his nose with the smell of burned wood, ash from a chance meeting. Everything that had been plaguing his thoughts since Hagi fell together instantaneously. The hatred in their eyes, the words Katsura had said to Takasugi while Gintoki’s blade cut into his neck, the proclamation to take his and Oboro’s lives. 

He can’t hold it in, the need to ask Shouyo of the two samurai too strong, the want to know more of this personality’s doings.

“So those two are still visiting that place?” Is what he gets in return, eyes glued into watching the man. His heart hurts at the lack of reply and he can’t stop himself from feeling dissatisfied, frowning. Shouyo must sense this because he puts down his quill and rolls up the paper, turning to face the teen. His heart races, the desire for this man’s attention making him giddy at the movement. In sort, he’s infatuated by the being before him, drunk on the idea of where this conversation could go. It envelops him, _to hell with all of the Naraku's emotionless and stark-faced rules,_ Gintoki wants to feel this.

The next thing Shouyo asks is of their encounter, Gintoki telling him every moment of it as best he could, from the grannies in the nearby village that make the man’s eyes soften in nostalgia to the press of Gintoki’s blade into Takasugi’s neck. He recalls washing his hands of the blood and how the samurai watched him pick up his weapon, the conversation next ensuing. Shouyo only laughs at that, remarking that neither had changed one bit. 

He’s questioned about the war shortly after, Gintoki telling him all that he knows. They talk for hours, conversation not ceasing until Shouyo senses the next guard’s footsteps coming down into the dungeon. He turns around, picking up the quill and dipping it in ink, his slim finger coming up in a soft hush before his lips. _Their secret._

Gintoki tries to look as bored as possible, slouching on his chair, arms crossed loosely, feet strewn out because he was a Wing and he could get away with such posture. The man greets him with a _“Sakata-dono”,_ Gintoki getting up without another word and walking out, already longing for the next cell-watching shift. 

Oboro is off somewhere else in the country tonight, Gintoki being the leader of this small Naraku base until he returns in seven days’ time, (the thought making his mouth dry) for Shouyo’s execution. 

\- 

It’s two nights later that he gets the watch shift again, the base too small to exclude him from doing tasks normally below his authority. 

Of course, he doesn’t mind this, anticipation welling up every step of the way down the stairs. He releases the guard on duty, shoulders ridgid from sitting in the hard wooden chair for hours on end, bones popping with the release of getting up. 

The previous guard is well out-of-ear when Shouyo finally greets him, telling Gintoki that he was quite feared in the ranks. 

“The _'Shiroyasha’_ they call you...” The man chuckles at the sentiment, putting down his quill and turning just as he had done their previous encounter. Gintoki had a small idea of the names and things the men under him said, most of which born from the closeness which he shared with his father and the power they held together. “Tell me, Gintoki, what ever happened to Mukuro? She was one of the Wings, was she not?”

“She’s gone.” He replies, unsure of the details himself. “I don’t know if she’s dead or not, I wasn’t the one that handled the situation, Oboro was.” 

Shouyo simply hums at this, hands laced gently in his lap. “And how is he?” 

“Head of the organization now that Utsuro ascended, still as plain faced as always.” 

“I knew him when he was young and actually almost killed him, that is why he has such blood running through his veins. Believe it or not, he wasn’t always so uptight. He followed me back to the Naraku despite my best efforts and when I ran away, blamed himself for the ordeal. I only wish I could’ve done more for him, my first precious student.” There’s a fond look in his eyes and Gintoki can only wearily smile, not knowing what to say about his brother’s torn past. 

Whatever stories weren’t shared their first encounter gets told now, conversation never stopping to end in silence. Words flow effortlessly between them, like the talk of two old friends who hadn’t seen each other in decades. While the physical aspects of Shouyo might be the same as his father’s, the gleam in his eye did not hide a void, the words he spoke full of life and wonder.

Truthfully, he’s scared. Gintoki was sitting right in front of the cell bars when Shouyo had reached through them, gently entwining a finger in his necklace and asking, _“Does this not ever grow too tight for you?”,_ the crow beginning to find it hard to swallow beneath. He could feel himself changing, the words of his younger self coming to mind, how he promised himself he would never die a death for another.

What was this now that made it so hard to breathe? The realization that he had been sacrificing his life for Utsuro’s smile all this time, the awareness of merely being seen as a tool in return? The prospect of taking a life singularly for attention, something far from ever being called love? Was it the ever growing feeling that he couldn’t keep this up anymore, now, with everything he knew, all he experienced at the hands of his father’s sole essence of humanity? 

Or maybe it was the way that Shouyo had freed his finger after, asking Gintoki to be the one to kill him when the day came, Gintoki’s heart sinking at the suggestion. 

For the first time since he laid his hands on it, Utsuro’s sword grows too heavy for him to carry.

His arms feel the ghost of that practice session from two years ago, the realization that his father wasn’t the only one that understood him, that there was more to his persona than merely being a finely sharpened blade. 

It’s also for the first time Gintoki wonders how many he’d killed for something as little as a pat on the head. 

Truthfully, he’s scared. He knows his feathers are moulting. 

-

On the sixth night, Gintoki was scheduled for guard duty. 

For the first time, he doesn’t want to go. 

Tomorrow evening Oboro will be returning. There’s going to be a final push of amanto forces, he’d been told, but he didn’t care much about the results of the Jouishishi rebels or Japan in its entirety, for that matter. 

Gintoki walks down the steps like he always does, releases the guard like he always does, sits down silently like he always does. Shouyo wasn’t writing this time, instead staring out the small sliver of window the cell makers had been gracious enough to put in. 

“The moon is full.” He begins, voice familiarly soft. “It’s beautiful. How reassuring to know that I never did grow tired of it’s charm.” 

Gintoki doesn’t want to know what he entails but he still finds himself asking anyway, maybe because he didn’t want to admit to himself that tonight would be their last.

Shouyo only chuckles, pushing aside a long strand of hair behind his back. “You are one hundred years too young to play me for a fool, Gintoki. I highly doubt that dispirited look on your face is because you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar...” His newly gained mentor smiles at him, gaze soft as he looked back through the window. “No, I hear the mumblings of the guards when they believe I can not hear.” 

Gintoki sighs, his eyes trying to find what Shouyo was looking at so delicately in the sky, failing to do so. He doesn’t know what to say, a time that would typically be full of stories and lessons falling short because of his own selfish dismay.

“I…” He begins, not sure where he was going, certainly not thinking before it all came tumbling out at once. “I can get you out of here, I have the key, we’ll run and―” 

His mentor smiles, holding up one of those hands that Utsuro always would when he was little. “Do not allow yourself to think of what could be. My fate has long since been sealed.” There’s a pause, the crow regretting he made Shouyo say anything at all. “Tell me, Gintoki, why do you swing your sword?”

The question comes quick, Gintoki wishing he had even the slightest bit of an answer to it. For his father? The Naraku? The Heavens? None of those were right anymore, even if they had been at one point. He knew not what he was fighting for now, possibly some fucked up sense of order, if that.

“The answer does not come, does it?” Shouyo’s eyes meet his own, pale hand reaching into his gray yukata, pulling out two sealed letters with familiar names and handing them to Gintoki. “I’m laying a heavy burden on your shoulders, but with it, an aid I think will ease you.” He leans forward, sticking his pinky out through the bars. “Please spare them the pain of taking my head. It is something I can only ask of you, the final disciple of Shoka Shonjiku.”

Gintoki leans forward to meet him, taking his mentor’s pinky in his own, sealing the promise.

In one second his hand is let go, the next, Shouyo’s fingers wrapping around his collar. His teacher pulls him closer, whispering softly as the string snapped and the wooden beads scattered across the stone.

-

He was not the one to bind Shouyo with the rope or the one to pull him out of his cell. No, he had simply watched from the back of the dungeon, torch hot in his hand as his wordless brothers dragged him up the stairs, his quill broken underneath the foot of Oboro. 

“Where’s your necklace?” He’d been asked coldly, his brother probably sensing the fear hiding just beneath the blankness of Gintoki’s eyes. 

“Spilled curry on it.” He replied back, equally as callous. _Don’t look at me._

For the third time, his sword weighed too heavy by his hip.

-

Lightning strikes behind them in the distance, the clouds above rolling like an upset sea, almost as if they knew the sin he was about to commit. He can’t help but stare at his mentor, stoic face downcast to his lap, hair still somehow perfectly kempt and framing his head. He’s got a look in his eyes Gintoki couldn’t decipher, like he’d been preparing for this moment and knew exactly how each and every assassin would be placed around him, which would have their blades at his neck and which would be standing at the head of the cliff. 

But Shouyo was always like that, seemingly in-the-know about everything that ever crossed his path, his wisdom boundless. Gintoki had learned that very quickly in their short few days together, how, no matter the topic, the other could talk about it until the perm’s voice went hoarse from overuse. 

Maybe, just maybe, that’s the reason why he has to be killed, for the world’s own sense of mortality, so no one man could be a God on earth, holding all the knowledge and only sharing with who he deemed fit.

But it would be foolish to tell himself so. He knows good and well that this is not anything Shouyo has done or his disciples or even anything that Oboro had ordered. This is all his father’s doing, the member of the Tendoshuu only here in his place so that he wouldn’t reveal a secret. If there was to be a God on earth, it was only right that Utsuro would make sure it was him. 

He couldn’t have anyone standing in his way, even if it was himself, such was the way of the Yatagarasu.

The Heavens is talking to Shouyo but Gintoki is not hearing a word of it, his hand sweaty as it wrapped around the handle of his father’s sword, nervously running a thumb over the braid. Takasugi and Katsura are thrown down behind him a couple of meters, eyes wide, glued to the back of their teacher. 

It hurts, it hurts before he’s even committed the sin and another strike of lightning lights up the sky in front of them, striking a tree somewhere in the forest, warning. He’d killed too many in cold blood, countless names and faces he couldn’t remember if his own life depended on it. Like some divine retribution, the Gods are angry― he will be the one kneeling soon, forced to bow to the consequences of his actions. 

_“Pick whoever you would like, although do not overlook your precious students back there. At least with one of them you can be assured the deed will be done quickly.”_ The Heavens surmised, a mocking little sneer behind the words. Shouyo, however, is characteristically unphased as he brings his head up to choose his killer, eyes skipping right over the amanto as if in defiance, landing on Gintoki. 

_“You,”_ he confirmed, and it’s right at this moment where the two bound samurai in the back realize just who their teacher had picked, memories from five months ago reigniting themselves new again. They cry out, squirming in the dirt as Gintoki reluctantly stepped forward, black blade withdrawn, nose full of that ashy scent. 

Takasugi’s voice breaks in desperation when he calls out the crow’s name, unable to tear his eyes away as the chosen takes his place behind their master. The Naraku beside him step back, the jingle of their staffs parting the thick air. It’s then that his sword raised above his head, Shouyo turning slowly around for one last look of his three students, the kindness in his smile that Gintoki had grown so fond of beaming softly back at him. 

His mentor whispers a soft thank you, Takasugi shouting, begging, the land seeming to come to a silence around them.

Gintoki thinly smiles back, a crow caws once overhead, the sword comes down swiftly and but a heartbeat later, Yoshida Shouyo dies. 

-

The Joui war ends shortly thereafter, the last remaining generals gone, their men either dead or too disheartened to fight. 

The amanto are already beginning to make their mark on Edo, construction beginning on a big silver beacon in the middle of the city that sticks up like a sore thumb, airships littering the sky like giant locusts. Amanto mix in with the humans, walking with their heads high and their egos held higher as ronin begin to make their way back into the city, defeated. 

It takes Gintoki one year to run away.


	2. In Silence, You can Sometimes Hear More than in Noise.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gintoki has A Day™ and both of the boys take turns caring for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first and foremost, updated tags. check em out. 
> 
> okay not going to lie, it might just be me but I'm having author's doubts about this one so I hope it's good in the end. Some notes I made while writing:  
> 1.) in this fic, I have a headcanon that Hijikata has more scars than Gintoki because Gintoki never went to war so I'm running with it.  
> 2.) Hijikata's Be Forever Yorozuya haircut is mentioned because I'm simp.  
> 3.) Gintoki is more buff because I said so.  
> 4.) I finally wrote Hijikata as a top even if it's brief (sorrytopHijikatafans,Ireallydidn'twantthisonetobeaboutthesex) 
> 
> as always, enjoy.

“Gin-chan! Do you know where my toothbrush went?” Kagura peeks her head out, calling from the bathroom. She’s packing up her sleepover bag to go stay at the Shimura household for a couple of nights, Shinpachi brewing some tea in the kitchen, Gintoki’s request. 

“Why the hell would I know where that was? Do I look like I mess with your toothbrush?” Gintoki yells back, nonchalantly picking his nose as he read through the latest Jump, lounged back on the couch. 

“You’re my guardian! You should know where my poop goes when it gets flushed down the toilet!”

“Gin-san can only keep track of his own poops, not some brat’s too.” 

“Ah! I found it!” 

“How wonderful.”

She rushes out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand before stuffing it triumphantly in her bag, zipping it in one fell swoop. In the next second, it’s slung over her shoulder, a thumbs-up thrown in Gintoki’s direction. 

“Two days! Don’t do anything I would!” Kagura says, Gintoki letting his jump fall slack against his chest so he can look at her clearly.

“I think that’s my line... don’t do anything _I would,_ Kagura. Be good for that gorilla woman. Don’t let Sadaharu pee on the tatami again, take him out properly.” 

Shinpachi joins them a moment later, announcing that the tea was ready when he wanted it. Gintoki offers to walk them to the dojo considering how late it was getting, but he is politely declined by both kids telling him that they can fend for themselves, to which Sadaharu yaps in approval (of some dog kind). The door closes behind them gently after goodnights are said, Gintoki listening to the idle conversation all the way down the steps until he can no longer hear them. 

It’s quiet. 

The TV is on but he’s not hearing a word of it, noises flowing to whiteness in the background. Noisy, but not near noisy enough, just leaving an echoing of impenetrable stillness in its wake. The jump is tossed on the coffee table, not caring that the page is lost for him to find later, if he ever picks it back up.

He rolls over on his stomach, aimless, headache swelling in the front of his head, low and irritating. His eyes close, trying to make it all go away with a small nap before he has to get up again and put on a show. Of course, it’s one of those nights, where anything and everything pops up in his mind at least once. Usually he could stand it, bundle up in his blankets and turn the AC real low so he just shivered himself to sleep, but he can’t, not today. 

An unknown amount of time passes between thinking and some awkward form of unconsciousness spread insatiably thin. It had started raining in there somewhere, heavy drops coming off the side of the roof in steady streams. He wonders if he should call and tell him to turn around, not to get himself wet. But knowing him, he’s probably already on the way, sword grasped in one hand, cigarette in the other as it gets soggy the more he holds it, barely smokable. 

Thunder rolls overhead, lightning cracking across the sky a moment later, Gintoki watching it through the open blinds. It’s comforting, in some odd way. Ports always got rain, reminding him of a home that seemed so distant, so far from his current one. The slide of rain off the side of his woven hat as he returned, another life’s blood on his hands that he didn’t have when he’d left.

It’s all so far away, that life and his own now, both distant and out of his reach, much like the hand that slides up the curve of his back, wet and familiar. Nails drag softly over his scars, the sink of the couch as Hijikata sits down next to him, rough fingertips making his skin twitch under their touch.

He rolls over and takes Hijikata’s wet hair dripping onto his nose in his fingers, getting the water out. He’s cold to the touch, face slack in something immediately recognizable as understanding. He can imagine it, what the vice-commander's face looked like when he came through the door, heard but unacknowledged, and what it looked like when he touched and got no further reaction. He can imagine Hijikata stopping, hands feeling for a pulse, just to make sure because it was so out-of-line for there to be no greeting when he walked in. There always was. _Why not now? Why can’t he bring himself to laugh and grin just like all the other times?_

He takes more of Hijikata’s hair in his hands, squeezing, wiping what he does manage to get out on the couch pillows. Hijikata sits, watching his face as he works, not caring that he was staring. He could stare, that was kind of their thing. Stare across the street, stare while their fists are clenched in each other's collars, stare while they drank. Hijikata liked looking for things in Gintoki and he wasn’t going to stop him because Gintoki, too, liked to look for things in Hijikata. 

It’s part of how they got where they were, after all― the two of them never ones to talk about feelings when they could show them instead. It’s just how they worked, no big-three-words, they didn’t need that to define how they felt or what they were. They existed, together, and that was more than enough. 

Hijikata doesn’t ask though Gintoki can tell he wants to, instead getting up to get the tea already brewed, Gintoki sliding off the couch to get him a dry yukata. It’s a routine so incredibly familiar that it hurts he can’t bring himself to act normal, to pull out a game for them to bicker over or a movie to watch before eventually retiring to the bedroom for the night. 

Two cups click against the wood, lukewarm, and if Hijikata had a problem with the temperature he didn’t say anything, taking a sip before changing out of his wet clothes in the middle of the living room. Now it’s Gintoki’s turn to stare at the expanse of skin, his body more scarred than the perm’s, leaner too. Where Hijikata had built himself for the police force that required stamina and accuracy, Gintoki had been busy training to be the split image of Utsuro, the power of that man’s strikes honing his own mortal body. Utsuro was broad, his presence not the only thing that dominated a room― and once, Gintoki had that command too. 

But that was almost ten years ago. Now all he had was an affliction for parfaits, too many boogers, and a previous life’s sins to dwell over at night.

Hijikata sits down next to him, quiet as he drinks the rest of his tea. Gintoki watches the bob of his adam's apple with every sip, eyes fixed on it, his mind elsewhere. The other watches him back, fully focused, trying to figure out what to do, probably. He knows he isn’t making this easy and he hates himself for putting his own burdens on one of the closest people to him. Hijikata doesn’t deserve this, or him.

“Stop that.” He looks up, meeting soft blue eyes. The vice-commander stares resolutely back, his expression slack, brows not pinched inward like they usually were. “I don’t know what that permy head of yours is thinking, but I can tell when your lips droop like that it means you’re being self-deprecating, so stop. You’re not a bother to me.” 

Finally, Gintoki brings himself to laugh. “What are you talking about, Hijikata-kun? I―” He’s cut off by Hijikata leaning forward, placing a borderline harsh kiss on his lips that doesn’t last as long as he hopes it will. 

“You don’t have to act in front of me. I have these days too.” He states quickly, before Gintoki can think about saying something else to blow it off. “Talk to me about it if you need to, I’ll be here.” 

He merely nods, once, which is enough of a reply for the other before getting up and disappearing into the bathroom. He returns a moment later, hairdryer in hand, plugging it up in the nearest outlet. Hijikata’s v-bang is still plastered to his forehead and no matter the day, the vice-commander is not going to become sick on his watch so he flips on the switch, feeling for the warm air to heat up completely against his palm before going to work.

It feels good to care for something with his hands, to give instead of take. Fingers run through the tufts of wetness, not staying too long on one spot before moving to the next because the dryer had a tendency to burn, as Kagura had found out. Hijikata’s hair dries much faster than his own he comes to learn, the shortness and slimness compared to his mess of fluff allowing the water to let go easier. The back is done quickly, Gintoki pulling up his bangs and leaning over the couch to dry the front. 

Hijikata is handsome. He knows this fact just like the sky is blue and the grass is green. It’s simple, something he couldn’t miss even if he tried. However, it’s as he blows the shorter side bangs off his palm and Hijikata’s face is framed by them does it really hit him just how good-looking he really is. With his forehead uncovered, Hijikata’s eyes light up under the artificial lighting, the bridge of his nose to the middle of his brows a perfect curve. The vice-commander glances up at him, eyes seemingly widening at the expression Gintoki must have on his face.

He whispers a sorry, quickly trying to wipe whatever astonishment was left away, leaning down to place a soft kiss against Hijikata’s forehead. 

It doesn’t take much longer to finish drying his hair, the blow dryer turned off with a click, unplugged and taken back into the restroom wordlessly. The TV is still on, he’s beginning to be able to hear it, fog lifting from his mind with the ease of Hijikata’s presence. With Hijikata, he can just _be,_ because the vice-commander wasn’t someone to impress or foolish enough to fall for his acts. It’s something that Gintoki appreciates more than he could ever show. 

When he returns to the living room, he flips off the overhead light, the one from the kitchen providing enough for them to not be submerged in the darkness, but still comfortable in the night. Hijikata pulls him onto the couch with a gentle and guiding grip on the front of his black shirt, Gintoki sitting on one of his feet, the other hanging off the side.

Hijikata leans in to give him one kiss, his fingers simultaneously running softly through messy perm and Gintoki breaks it just to lean over and place the tea cup on the table. When he leans back up he’s met again, the kiss gentle and unhurried, Hijikata tasting of tobacco and smelling of rainwater. Slender fingers reach to unzip his shirt, not to escalate their position but merely to get a hand on porcelain skin, roaming, feeling the expanse of hardened muscle beneath. 

His own grip is fastened on the bend of Hijikata’s leg, rubbing tender circles through the fabric of his yukata. It feels good to touch and to be touched, calloused hands across his belly grounding him in the moment. On days like these, it's easy to float away, to chase release and not enjoy the journey enough on the way. Especially before Hijikata, when drunken flings were intended _for_ the release they brought with them, that small percentage of time where his mind could forget and let his body take over. 

He’s not going to allow that to happen tonight and neither is his partner, who breaks their lips to place attentive kisses across his jaw, trailing along the curve of his neck, a soft noise escaping Gintoki’s mouth when he nips at a tender part of flesh. The hand on the officer’s thigh tightens at the same time Hijikata’s begins to slide off one side of his black shirt, the other sleeve falling off with it. It’s tossed to the side, forgotten, the warmth of his skin fully meeting the cool weather-induced air. 

Gently, he’s pushed down onto the couch, Hijikata loosening the belt to his yukata slightly so that the perm’s hands could roam across his back, something Gintoki had complained briefly to him about before. _So attentive,_ he thinks, grinning as Hijikata returned to place more kisses, one by one, on his lips. One of his hands massage the tension from the shoulder beneath it, the other grabbing a fist of hair and pulling enough that Hijikata’s kiss is skewed on his mouth. The officer pays it no mind, grabbing his own handful of perm and using it to tilt Gintoki’s head to the side so he could suck a mark into the curve of his neck and shoulder. 

There’s heat growing steadily between them, their bodies only a few centimeters away from each other, feeding off the warmth in the chilling room. There’s a pop, the sound of his pant’s button being undone by a skillful hand, a zipper pulled down to follow it. What noise the TV is making is now too loud, his hand unfurling from its grip in dark hair to feel across the table, finally connecting with the remote to turn it off with a fumble. It clicks to silence, suddenly the sounds of Hijikata’s lips making marks across his collarbones much more exciting than they were previously. A hand wraps around what it can of his hardening dick, still clothed by his boxers and pants. Hijikata grumbles about something above him and Gintoki doesn’t have to hear it to know what he’s upset over, the officer often complained during times like these that he wore too tight of clothing. 

_It’s nice to look at, though,_ he’d reply with a grin, Hijikata’s ears reddening as he called him one cuss word or another. 

With two tugs at the side of a white yukata, Hijikata is sliding them off of the couch, understanding that the perm wanted to switch to the bedroom. Gintoki trips while trying to get out of his pants, falling on his ass in the center of the futon with a thud. Hijikata laughs softly at the show, Gintoki flipping him off with a small smile while the officer helped to pull off the remaining clothed leg, tossing them to the side. 

A thumb digs into each side of Gintoki’s hip bone, Hijikata kissing scattered scars across his stomach, some loose strands of hair tickling his belly. He reaches forward, pulling the thin cloth belt holding Hijikata’s yukata together, the white folds spreading open to reveal skin. He can’t help but cuss, the sight going straight to his aching erection. The cloth droops _just right_ off the officer’s shoulders, the sleeves ending above the start of his palm to where he could see the grip Hijikata had on him just by the strain of his wrist. Hijikata is paler in the darkness, body looking like it was carved straight from marble, the deeper scars peeking out just a little more in the dim lighting. He’s beautiful, he thinks, but must have ended up saying it out loud because Hijikata’s kiss-swollen lips part open just the slightest bit in surprise, his already flushed face growing darker.

He sits up, mouth connecting with the bottom of Hijikata’s neck, deciding that it was a sin for Hijikata to be so free of marks from bites and kisses. His arms wrap around Hijikata’s waist, scratching lightly down his back. Simultaneously, hands make their way into his boxers, squeezing the muscle of his ass. The noise he makes in return is low and airy, biting down on the skin beneath his lips, growl rumbling needy from the pit of his chest. 

Hijikata answers, pushing him back down against the futon, giving him one kiss that’s more bite and tongue than anything before sliding off Gintoki’s pink strawberry boxers and tossing them down out of the way. Gintoki grumbles a complaint about Hijikata’s boxers too, (the yukata, of course, was totally fine) frowning when he got no reply, frowning even further when the officer leaves the futon entirely to go get the lube from the drawer Gintoki kept it in. 

He complains that he’s cold and once more gets no reply in return, the officer’s knees hitting the bedding in front of him, cap of the acquired bottle popped open, its contents poured onto an open hand. 

“Don’t igno―” He’s cut off by warmth closing over his length, Hijikata taking him completely down on the first try. He has to latch onto a handful of hair in order to keep himself from coming then and there, cock jerking beneath his partner’s skilled tongue. 

“Oi, oi, did you sell your soul for a mouth like that? Holy fuck―” Hijikata looks up at him, eyes darkened underneath his eyelashes, pushing two lubed fingers past the ring of muscle. His head falls back against the pillow, back arching slightly because Hijikata knows he likes some burn and feeds into that desire in arguably, the most obscenely sexy ways possible. 

A quiet gasp escapes his lips, the fingers in him just shy of his prostate, the tongue on his cock tracing circles around his tip. It’s almost too much when combined with that calloused hand pressing bruises into his hips. Gintoki is in no way sex-deprived, Hijikata is just _that good_. Beads of sweat begin to form across his forehead, his permy tufts sticking to his skin as he fought against the urge to come prematurely before the real fun even began. Unannounced, a third finger gets added and in the next motion a forth, which makes him groan not out of pleasure but frustration, because goddamn it all, he was impatient. 

Before he can complain, however, he’s entirely empty, the wet slap of his dick falling against his skin as Hijikata turns his hips enough that Gintoki gets the idea and flips the rest of the way over. He hears the cap open once more, a hand reaching to coat his hole again, not that he needed it. 

Looking back, he watches Hijikata align himself up through the darkness, yukata elegantly spread around him, the officer licking his lips once before pushing himself slowly inside. 

He hums at the feeling of total fullness, Hijikata not waiting for him to adjust before moving immediately back out, knowing good and well that he could take it. There’s a cuss once, short and quick in bliss, nails digging into both sides of the pillow, his teeth clenched together. Hands trail up and down his back, pressing, scratching, feeling as the slow and steady thrusts move him back and forth. 

He grinds back against Hijikata, not caring that he was being greedy, the action itself begging for more. His partner obliges, pushing his stomach almost fully flat against the bedding for a better angle. In the next motion, a moan is ripped from his lips, prostate hit, sending sparks through his vision. 

The sex is damn good, it always was with Hijikata, no matter their positioning. However, the real victory is the sounds he prys from his partner. His stifled gasps through parted lips, the ones that turn into moans when he can’t hold them back, his hands shaking slightly as they hold onto him, knuckles white and nails digging crescent shapes into his skin. It’s his favorite part everytime, seeing Hijikata come undone above or below him, he had no preference as long as he got to watch it happen. 

Which of course with Hijikata, only makes him more flustered, that feeling of constantly being watched. Gintoki knows it doesn’t bother him though, because eventually they’ll lock gazes and lose track of time through the pleasure of it all, the feeling of the other so close and intimate, not breaking until eyes roll back and close with release. He loves it. Relishes in it. Is insatiably drawn towards _him._

Torn from his thoughts, his partner rolls his hips into him just the way he likes it, hiss turning to a growl through the sensation. He can feel the heat on his face crawling down to his chest, heart beating wildly with affection and thrill. Then, he’s flipped once more, one leg thrown over Hijikata’s shoulder, the other to the side of his waist. He’s entered again, the feeling just as good as the first time, the officer pressing kisses to his calf, anywhere his lips could reach. 

He feels his toes curl from the sight, engaging the muscle in Hijikata’s hand who squeezes it back once lovingly. His thrusts haven’t moved to anywhere that could be considered fast, taking his time enjoying drawing out every speck of delirium from the perm. He was getting there quickly, too― not able to get out a full word before it fell into some other noise of ecstasy. 

His head falls back against the pillow, lip bit violently between his teeth. He reaches for his flushed and neglected cock, Hijikata never letting his hand get there, entwining their fingers together. 

_You’re enough,_ he thinks he hears Hijikata whisper through the buzz of his head, leaning up on his unoccupied arm, face mixed in emotions of minute confusion and desire. 

The hand in his tightens and this time he watches the words leave the other’s mouth, spoken against a long scar. “You’re enough.” He says, ending the statement with a thrust, Gintoki’s eyes fluttering closed, lips parted in a silent moan. “For me,” Hijikata pauses, letting his leg drop, leaning forward to kiss another scar on his chest. “For the kids,” another kiss on a different wound. “For everyone.”

The next movement hits directly on his prostate, a stifled cry ripped from his throat, vision whitening as he comes across his chest, nails scratching marks on the shoulder they were latched onto. Hijikata is soon after him, head dipping as he came in him, a variety of curses all bled into each other as they both floated through the high. 

His chest rises and falls trying to find his breathing, hand still clenched tightly in Hijikata’s. Gintoki watches a bead of sweat run down from the officer’s forehead to his chin, finding the strength through his exhaustion to lean forward and wipe it off. It’s then that Hijikata pulls out of him, quickly sliding on his boxers as he goes to fetch the rag. 

The perm closes his eyes, the seconds in between Hijikata leaving and coming back passing in what seems like the blink of an eye. The rag is cold on his skin, exactly how he prefers it. He’d gotten the weirdest look from Hijikata when he’d told him the first time to run the water cool, not warm, the two then getting into the debate of whether or not being cold made snuggles better or worse. Which, of course, the correct answer was better.

The yukata is reluctantly taken off, laid over the top comforter. He is soon joined under the bedding, lying on his side as he watches Hijikata’s face illuminate in an orangey hue from his dumb mayo lighter, cigarette held steady between his swollen lips. The first breath of smoke exhaled is unexpectedly worrying, the feeling hitting him from seemingly nowhere, brows pinching further as he kept watching the other, trying to figure out _why._

The sound of his lips opening in the silence of the room gets Hijikata’s attention, his head turning slightly, gaze locked onto his own through the darkness. “You really do need to stop smoking.” He says simply, watching for some emotion to cross the vice-commander’s face, but it never comes. 

“Okay.” Is the answer he gets instead, taking another drag. “I will.”

“Good,” He rolls over onto his back, hands beneath his head. “Because you were practically wheezing hitting me from the back earli―” A finger gets shoved sharply under his ribcage, Gintoki yipping at the pain, feet squirming back and forth like a child. 

“Is that the only reason, bastard?!” Hijikata barks through a whisper.

He nurses the spot with a quick rub, rolling back over and reaching for the cigarette. Hijikata allows him to take it, watching him bring it to his lips, one inhale before the perm hands it back. “No, it’s not.” 

He gets a soft _‘mn’_ in reply, alternating between staring at a mark he’d left on Hijikata’s collarbone and his eyes. His partner’s lips purse seemingly in thought before he breaks the silence again, speaking. “Why did you have that expression on your face earlier? When you were drying my hair, I mean.”

“I just thought you looked good.” He retorts back, truthfully. “If you ever get tired of that v-bang I think it’d be nice if you showed some more of your face. Mmm, not too much though. It would be bad if people started swooning over the demonic vice-commander when I’m not around...” He coos, voice monotone. 

“Huh? What makes you think they don’t swoon now? Oi, don’t just stare at me like that.” 

“Swoon? More like scream when they see how much mayo you put in your coffee. No one could swoon after that.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Wow, you forget about my love for sweet beans. People talk about both of us so we are equally weird in the eyes of society, but alas, only one of us has true good taste.”

“Me.”

“No, Hijikata-kun. I’m sure if you asked a bunch of strangers and put my Uji Gintoki-don up against your Hijikata special, my Uji Gintoki-don would be the preferred pick.”

“As if.” He flips over on his stomach, moving the ashtray behind the pillow so it was directly under the cigarette. 

Gintoki rolls over with him, watching the last ebbings of rain fall off the side of the roof. It’s peaceful― the quietness of it all, not suffocating like before. There’s a warmth that lingers between them, a soft connection, unspoken but felt just as much. Gintoki has never been good with his words, not one for talking about things that weren’t mindless or stupid but this time it feels different, the weight of the room. 

It dawns on him finally that Hijikata is still worried. It’s shown in the scrunch of his brows when he knocks the cigarette ash into the tray, cheeks just slightly droopy in thought. Not like Gintoki can blame him, with what Hijikata came into earlier, he has every right to be uneasy. After all, it was always the simplest things that triggered nights like these, stuff way beyond Hijikata’s control, and his own. 

It would be a lie to look the officer in the eye and tell him everything was okay, if he could bring himself to even speak the words in the beginning. He was still trying to shake off old habits beaten into him with cold metal, still trying to learn how to live his life unbound by despotism. 

It was shameful, really. Ten years go by and he still finds himself correcting his posture, sitting straight, still sometimes holds his tongue in conversations without thinking because it had always been _speak if spoken to._ Even as a Wing he still minded rules bound closer to the younger Naraku, because he would never make the same mistake that Oboro did, that Mukuro did. 

But he still did, didn’t he? All those years of killing, all the lives lost to his hands both deserving and undeserving, all for nothing the very moment he’d made the decision that fateful night to run, no matter the cost involved. If he was hunted down and killed it was only fair, he’d committed the ultimate sin of killing that man, of ruining two lives parallel to his own, death a welcome reprieve to endless guilt. 

He knew how they looked at him, bound on the ground with no say as to what would happen to their master, the ones who grew up with Shouyo by their side, telling them stories just as he’d done to Gintoki those three nights. He dreams about those days often, an exact replaying of the sense of freedom Shouyo had bestowed upon him when that necklace string tore under his gentle grip, sending beads across the floor in waves of relief. The dreams don't stay dreams for long, however, always ending the same: waking up with his hands trembling, nose engulfed in the ghost smell of thick ash, the jingle of staffs still ringing in his ears. He re-lives it time and time again, every few nights at least, keeping the wound in his heart raw and gaping, keeping him repentful.

He knows he’s lucky to be in the situation he’s in; with two kids that care for his well being much more than they should, with Hijikata who stays and listens to his silence, with Otose and Tama and Catharine and all the other people he’s come to love since Kabukicho became less of a ghost of his past and more of a home. 

He’s grateful for Oboro, who found him months later, killing the two Naraku he’d brought along with his own blade. 

He’d killed Gintoki then, too― cutting him free from himself. In his past life, he was a traitor, another fallen prodigy child who was slain when he was hunted down, managing to take the lives of two successful Naraku brothers in a last-ditch effort to rebel against the heavens. In his new life, he was just Sakata Gintoki. Sakata Gintoki who was loud, childish, and lazy. Sakata Gintoki whose cheeks were round from eating too many sweets, whose doctor yells at him about the risks of diabetes, whose landlord sends in a robot equipped with fire to get the rent paid. 

He glances over to Hijikata, who, in the middle of his jumble of thoughts, had finished his cigarette and was now snuffing it away on the tray in front of him.

Yes, he’d died then, but he was so glad to be alive now. 

Hijikata feels the eyes on him, head turning to meet the perm in silent concern, Gintoki staring back at him with an uncharacteristic gleam. The rain that taps against the outside window seems to be worlds away, the two of them sealed in their own space, their own universe where nothing was too heavy to be said if one could merely get the first word out. 

And he does, asking whether or not Hijikata wanted to hear a story, to which the answer was a nod of the vice-commander’s head and a soft hum of affirmation. There’s a pause after, long and full of two breaths, one searching and one waiting. 

Eventually, he finds the words, settling on a joke about how much it hurt to cut open one’s foot on a rock, because it was always easier to talk about difficult things when there was humor involved. He talks, tells story upon story of beatings and fights, of wine-colored banners and purple roofs, of his first necklace and how it met its end after seven years of continuous wear. He talks about two kids he once met outside a small village and how he wishes he could redo that experience, maybe to sit in front of the remnants of a school he never entered and chat idly about their favorite foods or something equally as mindless, to just get along with his classmates. He goes on and on about all sorts of things that feel just as far away as the rain on the window, like the comfort of bundling up after training sessions in a feathered cape while his father had read or wrote, the feeling of elation accompanied by a stifling amount of surprise and disbelief when Utsuro told him one night to keep it.

He talks until the torch’s heat lapping on his cheek feels almost real, the vivid smell of new rope as Shouyo walked past him, bound and silent, his own neck bare and uncollared. The story of how heavy the black sword was in his shaking hands comes next, of the moment that he’s called forward, and the point that his classmates tied on the ground realize just who and what is coming next. 

He doesn’t know how he got through the neck with how weak his swing was, compared to what he could do. That time definitely wasn’t his first to cut off a head, but it was the first to see the life he was cutting down. How many Shouyos had he killed at the Heaven’s orders? How many could he have saved if he had opened his eyes sooner? 

They’re all pointless questions but he speaks them out loud anyways, talking to himself. Maybe he’ll hear the answer this time, or find out for sure that there is nothing to be questioning in the beginning, that life long over and done with, that guilt ripe and raw but dead nonetheless. 

He goes through every bit of it, talks until his voice is raspy from overuse, until he’s sure Hijikata was asleep because of the time passed since he began, the other’s breaths uniformed and quiet. It’s only when he stops, the story on his lips a ghost of this insignificant restaurant whose owner had too-loud of a mouth, ordering around some kid with glasses equally as insignificant as the building he worked in. 

_The parfait was okay, my first one that week, then, ah, it’s on the ground just like that. Wasted._

Hijikata has heard this before. After all, his part in Gintoki’s story comes not too long after, trying to avenge a gorilla. He stops then, the silence unfilled with words coming back into the room, the low buzz of rain and the apartment’s air conditioning humming softly in the background.

Hijikata shifts, the motion telling Gintoki he was still awake, hand reaching out for his lighter, a new cigarette lit just a second later. One inhale of smoke is drawn before he sighs, a thousand words dancing on the tip of his tongue.

“Thank you.” He settles upon finally, catching Gintoki’s eyes with his own in the night. Hijikata’s face is soft with sincerity, a smile on his lips telling of his gratitude. Gintoki smiles back once, equally as thankful that he’d finally been heard, allowing his head to flop against the pillows. He’s tired, the sounds of rain and the smell of smoke a welcome invitation to sleep. Maybe tonight there won’t be any specters in his dreams, maybe today he’ll wake up sweating only because there were two bodies under the covers instead of one. 

The cigarette is put out not too long after and in the middle of consciousness and sleep, an arm wraps around his back, thumb rubbing small, soothing circles on his skin. 

It's quiet. What little noises there is flow to whiteness in the background, comforting and still. It's one of those nights where anything and everything run through his mind at least once but today, he’s sure, he’s going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that I didn't disappoint. I've always liked the idea of Gintoki confessing his past to Hijikata so I wrote it, because 99% of this fic is self-indulgent anyways. If you want to yell at me about it, my Tumblr is @gintokiu and my newly acquired twitter is @gintokiuu
> 
> Also, something much bigger than my mediocre fanfics is the BLM movement. I encourage you to donate, call, send emails, sign petitions, and do whatever you can to help the struggle for racial equality, even if you don't live in the U.S.. Here's a guide I found helpful: https://www.fastcompany.com/90511515/how-to-help-black-lives-matter-9-things-you-can-do-for-the-george-floyd-protesters-right-now (and there are many more like it just a google search away)  
> Please, do your part and speak up because silence is acceptance. 
> 
> Thank you, and I hope you have a great day, as always.

**Author's Note:**

> Woof, thank you all for giving me and my work your time, please make sure you are staying safe and practicing habits to keep others around you safe!! <3 Till next time.


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